


Wet

by Paia_Loves_Pie



Series: Soft Smut Sunday [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Making Out, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:19:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25101523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paia_Loves_Pie/pseuds/Paia_Loves_Pie
Summary: Of all the days to forget his umbrella....
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Series: Soft Smut Sunday [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1672735
Comments: 14
Kudos: 142
Collections: Soft Smut Sunday





	Wet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Topicabo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topicabo/gifts), [Mrs_Crowley](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mrs_Crowley/gifts).



> For Topicabo and Mrs Crowley, who tempted me with the idea of Mycroft in a wet shirt. You're welcome.

Of all the days to forget his umbrella. Greg had checked the forecast for him, assured him it was to be a nice day - a rare combination of warm weather and clear skies and no work emergencies on a Sunday. Greg, in a fit of bullish  _ carpe diem _ that wouldn’t be denied, assembled a basket to take with them to the park - always the romantic one. They found a shady spot near a big tree (surely older than the both of them combined) and spread out the thick blanket to sit on. In concession, Mycroft had dressed down in a white button-down and khakis. Greg was a delight in his navy polo shirt and jeans. 

A lazy afternoon passed as they traded bites of strawberry and soft cheeses, and watched the cyclists go by. Grapes and slices of sausage punctuated their rambling discussion of the state of capitalism before they both got worked up and mutually agreed to shift the discussion to their favorite novels instead. Greg rolled up Mycroft’s sleeves before they both attempted to eat their slices of watermelon without making a mess. A glass of wine turned into two as they brushed away ants and pointed out cloud shapes, tangling their fingers together and bumping knees, curled together like parentheses on their blanket as the breeze washed over them, sunlight dappling through the leaves. 

Mycroft didn’t often get a chance to relax like this, and when he did, his mind protested the idleness. The outdoors wasn’t his favored venue, but today he was absorbed in Greg, utterly, irrevocably in love. His smile, his arms, the way his shirt highlighted his broad chest and his jeans clung to his thighs. Not indecent, by any measure, but certainly distracting. His gravely tones and expressive gestures. The belly laugh that felt like winning at a slot machine every time he made it happen.

He wasn’t prepared for the first fat, cold, wet droplet to land on his cheek. It startled him and he flinched, looking up just in time to get another one square on his eyelid. Without further warning, the skies opened and a deluge of rain soaked through their clothes in a matter of seconds. Sunshine was still streaming over the edge of the rain cloud, creating a wild dichotomy of scenery as it shone through the raindrops that fell all around them. Quickly, Mycroft attempted to put their items safely into the picnic basket while Greg gathered up their blanket into a bundle in his arms. Together, they made a mad dash for the shelter of the tree which branched out over their heads, deflecting all but the largest drops of rain under its reach.

Breathless and panting, Greg and Mycroft set down their burdens, took one look at each other, and began giggling helplessly as the water fell around them. The wind picked up as the air cooled, and Mycroft shivered in his chilled shirt. In deference to the heat, he’d neglected to wear a vest underneath, and the soaked fabric was now see-through and clinging to his chest. Greg took a deep breath in an attempt to calm his chuckles. His face was bright, and water dripped from his hair down his temple. 

His eyes swept Mycroft up and down, and he drew his bottom lip between his teeth, gaze growing suddenly predatory in a way that made Mycroft’s stomach clench and his stance shift. Mycroft felt the craggy bark against his back as Greg crowded him against the tree trunk. Their breath grew humid between them, Greg’s warmth seeping through to Mycroft’s skin. 

Greg reached out a single finger, and touched Mycroft’s nipple where it had hardened against the fabric. The darker color of it was obvious beneath the transparency of his shirt and Mycroft made a soft, desperate noise as the touch sent an aching wave down to his cock, instantly shifting weight into his trousers. 

Greg lightly stroked again, rubbing a small circle and then worrying it between his fingers. Mycroft made a small noise in the back of his throat as he wrapped a hand around the back of Greg’s head and pulled him in. They breathed a kiss into each other’s mouths before desire overtook them and Greg roughly pulled Mycroft close by the small of his back, pinching his nipple harder as he sucked in Mycroft’s lower lip. He savored the whimper that left Mycroft’s mouth as though it were another delicacy from their long-forgotten basket. 

The scrape of the tree behind him was arousing on his sensitized skin. His blood thudded in his ears as Greg rucked up the back of Mycroft’s shirt and dipped a grasping hand down the back of Mycroft’s trousers. He palmed a buttock in a firm squeeze that made Mycroft squirm and gasp into his mouth. Their kisses grew frantic and biting as Mycroft rubbed his front up against Greg, seeking relief for the ache he’d caused. 

“Sweetheart,” Greg groaned into his mouth. Mycroft made an inquisitive noise as he released Greg’s lips and nosed over to nibble at his ear. The punched-out breath he let out in response made Mycroft feel wild. He did it again just to feel it resonate against his chest. 

“Darling,” Greg gasped, trying again. “Wait.” The grasping hands on his rear-end contradicted Greg’s words as they hauled him closer, but Mycroft drew back a moment to let him speak, admiring Greg’s red, kiss-bitten lips. The high flush on his cheeks combated his summer tan. It was tearing Mycroft’s already weakened resolve to shreds.

“Listen, here’s the new plan. Let’s dash home, I’ll strip you out of these wet clothes, and then let’s see what we should do with the last of those nibbles in the basket, yes?” He trailed a teasing finger down Mycroft’s sternum and tucked it into the front of his pants, tugging lightly. 

“Yes,” Mycroft agreed immediately. 

For Greg, the answer was always yes. 


End file.
